


Who Tells your Story: Act 3 (After the Battle)

by Roga



Series: Who Tells Your Story [3]
Category: Generation Kill, תנ"ך | Tanakh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-18 19:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18125531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: Enter Yohanan the Scribe.





	Who Tells your Story: Act 3 (After the Battle)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hagar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hagar/gifts).



The sky is washed with faint pink, reflected in shallow puddles that still dot the grounds of the camp. For a moment, Yohanan can’t remember if it’s sunrise or sunset – he has never witnessed events like he has in the past few weeks, and all the days seem to blend together into one – but the sea glimmers in the west, and the sun is slowly setting, soon to put an end to the affair. He’s been writing stories for a while. He can sense when one is about to close.

Someone taps him on the shoulder. It’s Fick. “Come,” Fick says, beckoning with a tip of his head. “She’s asked to see you.”

Fick leads him through the camp grounds – the common areas, the prisoner cells, through rows of tents, already halfway to being dissembled. They continue walking past a row of guards until they arrive at a clearing, somewhat surprisingly secluded. A few limestone rocks are scattered in the lush grass at the foot of two tall palm trees, leaves heavy with fruit. Two figures are sitting down, cradling steaming cups in their hands, heads bent in low conversation. She is sitting on one of the stones, clad in white robes. Barak, Son of Abinoam, sits on the ground beside her, resting his back against another stone.

Yohanan feels Fick melting away behind him, giving them privacy. The air is chilly, with a warm breeze coming from the east. Or perhaps it’s warm, with a cool breeze from the west.

“Join us,” the Prophet says.

Though there are plenty of stone seats, it feels wrong to sit taller than her. Yohanan joins Barak on the ground and accepts the steaming brew he is offered, smelling savory and sage.

“Relax,” Barak murmurs, lips curling up at the corners. He shakes his head at the Prophet. “You’re scaring him.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” she says primly. She’s staring right at Yohanan. Her eyes are a very piercing blue. It’s not _not_ scary. “So, Scribe,” she says. “May I read the piece?”

It’s not a request. Yohanan sets down the tea, fumbles through his robe for his hidden pocket, and hands her the scroll. 

When she’s done, she says, “It’s very good,” and then neatly tears the parchment to pieces. Yohanan barely has time to stifle a stunned cry.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You cannot tell that story.”

Yohanan waits. She exchanges a look with Barak, and nods approvingly. She explains what needs to be done. It’s only a small change in the text, one that Yohanan can add easily. “But why?” he asks. 

Yohanan is a writer; he observes, has been observing now for weeks. Even now, when she is about to tarnish his legacy and her own, there is an easy smile on Barak’s face as he looks at the Prophet. His respect for her is layered with genuine affection. It was not cowardice that made Barak say, when she sent him to prepare for war, “ _If you go with me, I will go_ ;” it was unrepentant trust and devotion. 

“This was a victory,” the Prophet says, “but these are difficult times. Our people’s fortitude is weak. They will soon sin, and will be punished. We will be attacked and conquered once more. If the nations around us see us as a threat, they will be quick to strike.” She sighs. “It is best if our neighbors think us weak and humiliated, not worthy of any attack. This will buy our people for a few more years.”

“So then…” 

“Humiliation,” Barak says. “When the nations around us hear the story told, they will hear of how weak I was, that I would not walk into battle without a woman as leader; how I was punished, that credit for victory would go to not just one, but two different women, and what nation allows a woman to lead to begin with,” he finishes, his brow raised with distaste. 

“This can give us twenty years,” says the Prophet. “Maybe forty. Will you do it?”

“Yes, Prophet.”

“Oh, don’t call me that. We’re not on a first name basis, He’s only spoken to me once or twice, really.” She says this far too casually, in Yohanan’s insignificant opinion. “I am a Judge, you know,” she says helpfully. “You could call me that.”

Barak snickers. “You could call her what the men call her.”

Yohanan flushes, his eyes immediately darting to her. 

She rolls her eyes. “Of course I know what the men call me. Nobody in this camp would know discretion if it hit them in the face. Godmother,” she huffs, with a hint of amusement. “Heaven knows what they’ll think of next. Now,” she says straightening up. “You are a very good storyteller, and you have told our story well. But Jael’s victory deserves more than a dry retelling. Let us add ourselves some poetry.”

*

And the land was quiet for forty years.

**Author's Note:**

> Image credit: [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Tabor#/media/File:COLOR_PHOTO_OF_MOUNT_TABOR_TAKEN_IN_THE_LATE_19TH_CENTURY_BY_FRENCH_PHOTOGRAPHER,_BONFILS._%D7%A6%D7%99%D7%9C%D7%95%D7%9D_%D7%A6%D7%91%D7%A2_%D7%9E%D7%A1%D7%95%D7%A3_%D7%94%D7%9E%D7%90%D7%94_%D7%9419_%D7%A9%D7%9C_%D7%94%D7%A6%D7%9C%D7%9D_%D7%94%D7%A6%D7%A8%D7%A4%D7%AA%D7%99_%D7%91%D7%95%D7%A0%D7%A4%D7%99%D7%A1_%D7%90%D7%A9%D7%A8_%D7%AA%D7%A2%D7%93_%D7%91%D7%9E%D7%A6%D7%9C%D7%9ED311-041.jpg). _Color photo of Mount Tavor taken in the late 19th century by French photographer Bonfils._


End file.
